


Whole New Worlds

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of some of the mini AUs I have been challenged to write since joining the Rumpelstiltskin/Belle community on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Accord - Dickens AU

**Author's Note:**

> Each of these is just a little one-shot experiment, to see how Rumbelle would fare in either AU or alternate reality :)

A mild rain was falling on the streets of Holborn, leaving puddles in the places of missing cobbles. Curled leaves caught in the gutters, blown in from the parks.

Miss French drew her woollen shawl tight about her shoulders and pressed on briskly. She dared not leave her father unattended for any great period, for he was prone to seek the bottle, and she made certain that there was none in their rooms. If he discovered it was so, she knew he would seek out a public house, and if that came to pass, then there would be no end to the trouble she would find herself.

Her father, once a good and hard-working man, had found himself upon hard times. Crippled when working in one of the factories in the East end, he could barely rise from his bed to be of use to anyone. Her mother had passed away so long ago, Isabelle could barely recollect her face. 

It was left to her to provide piecemeal for their table.

Desperation drove her, and though she was loath to admit it, there was hope also. 

She gathered her skirts, holding them above the rippled pools on the road, as she hurried towards Snow Hill. The rank smell of the prisons were thick on the air, and a quiver of fear ran through her. If she could not provide for her poor father and herself, the debtor’s prison would become their home. If she acted in any way that was deemed unlawful, Newgate stood as a solemn promise of retribution.

She did not like to venture there alone, but she had no choice.It was only a blessing that the most unsavoury characters were kept away by the misery of the climate.

Isabelle darted her eyes this way and that, seeking out the shop that she hoped would be her salvation. It was hardly worthy of note, wedged in between a Milliners and a Barbers, the windows so thick with soot and grime that all she could make out was the faint gleam of wealth. It would not be gold, not displayed prominently in the window, but the implication was sufficient to entice foolish people into the web of the moneylender.

Miss French was not known for her foolishness, but the matter was this: she and her father were desperate and Mr Stiltskin was known to offer deals to benefit both parties, though they often came with a hefty price.

She wet her lips, then placed a gloved hand on the polished handle of the door. It was well-used, and the door did not creak when she entered. Mr Stiltskin was a forbidding character, but there was hardly a person in Holborn who had not known someone who had partaken of his peculiar services. 

The shop was a labyrinth of strange and precious objects. They towered on all sides, pressing in around her as if she were a genie snugly nestled in a glittering lamp. She held her skirts tight about her for fear of dislodging some object or stack, and being buried alive beneath it, and edged her way deeper into the shop.

“And what do we have here?” a wheedling voice spoke some paces behind her.

Isabelle turned, alarmed, for there was no place for anyone to have hidden. 

Mr Stiltskin, for indeed it could be no other, stood there, his spidery hands laced before his chest. He was a pale and thin man, slight and predisposed to slyness. His heavy-collared coat cast eerie shadows across his face, and his dark eyes glittered strangely by the candlelight.

Isabelle curtsied as manners dictated, though with great caution. “Mr Stiltskin, I trust?”

His upper lip curved in some strange expression not akin to a smile, and he inclined his head. “That I am, dearie,” he said. He strolled closer, as a gentleman taking his leisure might, and spread his hands. “And whom do I have the… pleasure of addressing?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. So many people spoke of him with fear, yet she knew that if he was dealt with honestly, he did all that he promised and more. That spoke of some personal honour, which suggested that the man before her might be a rogue, but he was - at heart - a gentleman.

“My name is Isabelle French, sir,” she said, folding her hands together and willing herself to boldness. “My father is Maurice French, the…”

“The former foreman of the works down the river,” he finished for her. “Yes, yes. I heard about your father’s little misadventure.” His lips twisted, in part mocking. “I expect you have come to make an arrangement to keep his wineskin from the poorhouse, hmm?”

She flushed. Mr Stiltskin was known to be well-informed, but the fact that he was privy to their circumstances made her tremble with shame. “I fear it is so, sir,” she said. Her voice quaked only a little. “I have little that I can offer, but I do not wish to see my father condemned by a misfortune that was not his doing.”

He tapped his long fingertips together, a spider at his web contemplating a juicy fly. “What do you seek then, Miss French?” he asked, moving closer, his eyes on her face. He ought to have been repellent, with his bony hands and sallow skin, but she could see something in his eyes when he looked at her. “What can old Mr Stiltskin give to a maid who has nothing to barter with?”

Isabelle lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised it. “I have myself,” she said, meeting his gaze with proud defiance. “I will work in your employ, and you shall provide me with salary enough to keep my father tended and housed.”

Stiltskin snorted, but it was more surprise than derision. “You? Why would I have you here, dearie?”

She looked at him, a frail little man in a cluttered little shop. He had power of words and guile, but he had little else. “Because I think you are lonely, sir,” she replied as boldly as she could. 

His fingers danced about one another and he gazed at her with consternation. “Ha. Lonely.”

Isabelle wondered if perhaps she had been too bold, as he strode past her, barely stirring a trinket or object. He did not dismiss her at once, so she followed, cautious, to find him standing in the heart of the shop beside a broad desk. It was massed, as the rest of the shop was, with watches, gems, books. He rested his hands on the surface and did not turn.

“Very well, dearie,” he said, his voice quiet. “You shall be in my employ. You shall fetch my tea, clean my possession, bring order to…” He waved around vaguely, then turned and smiled thinly at her, putting her in mind of a cat about to leap upon a mouse. “And you shall empty the pockets of the corpses of those who cross me.”

She backed away a step with a small gasp. A cascade of books slid in a heap about her feet.

Stiltskin’s eyes glittered. “Just a quip, dearie,” he said, stepping closer and offering her a hand from her paged prison. “Not serious.”

She gave him the sternest glare she could muster. “Well, it was not amusing.”

His nose wrinkled and he grinned. “I think it was,” he said. “Do we have an accord?”

She looked at his outstretched hand, and laid her gloved fingers in it. “We do.”


	2. Wit and Learning - Harry Potter

“Oh! Excuse me!”

Jamie Gold turned with a snarl on the smaller student who had run into him, only for the sound to trail into a squeak at the sight of Belle French, one of the Ravenclaw Prefects standing there, right in front of him. Gold liked to think he could be suave and sophisticated and witty on every occasion.

“Um.”

She giggled, and that didn’t help. It was just fortunate that no one else was around to see. If Mills or, worse, Swan were about, he knew he would never hear the end of it. “I didn’t see you,” she informed him, closing the book on the top of her pile.

“Should you really walk and read at the same time?” he demanded, folding his arms and glaring. “I’d think looking where you were going would be better.”

“Of course not,” she said, “That’s why I was walking and carrying books, and the wind flipped it open just as I stepped into the courtyard.”

He snorted doutbfully. “Convenient excuse,” he said. “Especially since there’s no wind.”

She lifted a hand and tucked a stray curl of brown hair behind her ear. “Oops,” she said, giving him a look that seemed to be trying to be come-hither. 

Jamie blinked at her stupidly. She was one of the prettiest girls in the school, even if she was a brainbox Ravenclaw. “I thought you lot were meant to be smart.”

“I thought you lot were meant to recognise cunning when walked into you to give you an excuse to actually talk to me,” she countered, beaming at him.

Jamie had a horrible feeling he was blushing.


	3. The Sleepless Dead - Lord of the Rings

As the second age was brought to an end, much of that which went before was forgotten.

Though many great men were born, lived, and died, there were those who had names that became as the dust, swept away with the passage of time. 

Dunharrow had many sons, and many of those sons though forgotten lived on, hidden in the darkest places, awaiting the call of the Heir of Isildur. Too long had they been steeped in darkness, their treachery clinging to their very bones, all those the loved lost to them.

Among them was a man, once a spinner, who followed his brethren to darker paths before the great war.

His son was lost, torn from him in dark times, and to Sauron he turned, seeking power and vengeance for all that had been ripped from him. HIs grief was great and his turmoil tore at his very soul. With the kin of Dunharrow, they turned their allegiance from the true King and to the enemy.

The power he pleaded for was not given lightly, and he knew himself to be corrupt, but could no more dismiss the power than he could return his son to life once more.

The tide turned when the lady of the north stumbled into his home. His thoughts of darkness and grief were forgotten in the brightness that the northern maid carried with her. She offered her heart to him, but his brethren called upon him, summoning him to the battle.

He vowed to return, to seek her once more.

It was then that his brethren rejected the call of Isildur and turned from the authority of Gondor.

The spinner did not return. He did not know what fate became his northern maid, and nor would he ever, for he walked - as damned as every other of his brothers - in the cursed vale, awaiting Isildur’s heir for eternity.


	4. Spit-Spot - Mary Poppins

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the woman at his door.

“Well then, move along,” she said, shooing him back into the hall. She stepped in after him, carpet bag in one hand, umbrella in the other, and turned around in the spot, looking around. The sound she made expressed nothing but the deepest and most troubling of concern. “Hm. Yes. I see I’m just in time.”

“Just in time for what, exactly?” Rumpelstiltskin demanded, setting himself in front of her.

The blue-eyed maiden who was his price smiled at him brightly. “You asked for a housekeeper. Here I am, and I can see that there’s a lot of work to be done.” She tapped him once, briskly in the middle of his chest with the dragon-headed handle of her umbrella. “No time like the present. Come along. We’ll start with tea and go from there.”


	5. Schooling - Tudor AU

The day was bleak, and fires had been stoked for the ladies of the court to warm themselves.

The Queen had her ladies gathered about her in the parlour. It was not best suited to the purpose, but it was the only room with light enough that they might continue with their needlework unaided by candlelight.

The King was abroad, hunting as was his wont, but there was no derth of visitors coming to seek the Queen’s approval on some mattter or other. When each approached, her ladies would fall silent and gaze upon the interloper until they flushed and stammered upon their words, and only then would they pay heed to their embroidery.

It became a game, to see who might flush first: the lady or the approaching gentleman.

It was not unknown for a lady’s swain to approach, feigning a need to speak with her Majesty, only to pay mannerly court to one of her coterie.

There was one gentleman who did not blush, and neither did the lady he sought.

Lady Isabelle was the quietest of her Majesty’s ladies.

Even the King found nothing of interest in a maid who was meek as milk. Her face was always bent to the ground, as if afraid to cause insult or offence, timid to a fault before him. Many were before the bombastic presence of his Majesty.

Yet Lady Isabelle was the first to raise her eyes when Rutherglen was abroad at court.

The Scots Duke was a villain and knave, and was only permitted to court on writ of manner sealed by Arran himself. The Regent of the young Scots Queen granted the Duke the favour, though the Almighty alone knew why Rutherglen brought himself to court when it was known well that he deplored the English. Indeed, he deplored any who resided within a dozen miles of the border.

And yet, the Lady Isabelle raised her eyes to him, and he smirked and strutted, as if he were a very peacock. He did not speak to her, but to any other lady who was present. They flushed and stammered, and he would smirk all the more. 

Only when he was at his most trying did the Lady Isabelle rise, set down her needlework, fold her hands and ask him, “Your Grace, do you have your writ of manner to hand?”

“Madam, I fear it is forgotten,” he replied with a sweeping bow.

“That much,” she replied gravely, “is apparent.”

He laughed at that, clasping his hands together in mirth. “Zwounds,” he said, “The mouse has the fangs of a serpent.”

“The mouse,” she countered, “will only bite when provoked.”

“A proverb, my Lady?”

She met his eyes boldly. “A truth, my Lord, and a simple lesson.”

He bowed again, deeply, and when he smiled, it was warmer, knowing. “Consider, madam, that I am now schooled.”


	6. Dealmonger - Sherlock Holmes

The pistol shot in the adjoining room caused Isabelle French to rise, startled.

It should not have been so.

Many weeks in the service of Gold had taught her that to be surprised by anything the man did would be an exhausting state of affairs. He had an erratic humour and sharp temper, but she had not know him to take up arms. It seemed quite against his nature.

She made her way to the door and tapped lightly upon it. “May I come in?”

“For all the good it would do, you might,” he grumbled gruffly.

Isabelle pushed the door as wide as she might. It was not a great distance, for Gold was not the neatest of men. Books, tomes, strange and mysterious objects: they all spread from the shelves and desk onto the floor, even going as far as to cover the carpet in its entirety.

“I heard a shot, Gold.”

The man himself was sitting in the windowseat in a threadbare bathrobe, examining the pan of his pistol. “That you did, dearie,” he said. “I am quite bored.”

Isabelle sighed.

Gold was known in rumour as the Dealmonger, consulting in deals and trades that were only just to the right side of legal. The Peelers had been breathing down their necks far too often for Gold’s arrangements to be wholly legal.

One of those very deals was the reason she was in his employ: her father’s business was failing, and Gold provided a fitting opportunity for a young lady in his employ. The term was technically correct, but she felt more like she was spending all her time herding a particularly stubborn and indignant cat.

“Have you not looked at the recent correspondence?” she asked, gathering up some of the letters she had brought in two days before. She had opened them, laid them in a neat heap, which had been left untouched.

“They’re all dull,” he declared, scowling. He set down his pistol and stalked over to the mantle, taking down his pipe and crouching by the smouldering embers to catch a flame. “I will not deal with imbeciles and nincompoops who think I want gold and trinkets.”

“If that’s to be the way of it,” Isabelle said reasonably, “then you will find yourself short sooner rather than later.”

Gold snorted, puffing out smoke as he huddled in his great-backed chair. He looked like a dragon from the tales of Merlin. “I only take deals that might prove useful in the long run, dearie,” he said. “I will not dally with fools who would deal over an ill-cut suit or a missing wife.”

“Even you have to eat,” she pointed out reasonably. “Will you not at least consider them?”

His upper lip curled back from his teeth. “You would have me trade my skills to any little fool who comes to call?”

She approached, laying her hand on the upper wing of his chair. He scowled like a sullen child. “I would have you attempt to be gracious, one time in a while,” she said, then smiled at him. “If I am to deal with your ill humours, then surely you can tolerate my own counterpoint mood?”

He puffed a smoke ring at her, and his lips crooked in a smile. “Perhaps, perhaps,” he agreed, and held up his hand for the letters.


	7. Negotiable - Star Wars

“I don’t think this is formal training!”

Her Master laughed from somewhere above her. “So say the council,” he called back down. “They who never get off their fat arses. Come now, dearie. You’re very close.”

Bel Maur’s limbs were aching all over, and her hands felt bruised and blistered. The wind was buffeting her, and her robes snapped and slapped around her. She had tried to protest that the robes were an unnecessary hindrance when it came to climbing a sheer rock face. Her Master had only chortled and tied a blindfold around her eyes.

It served her right, she supposed.

Rumpelstiltskin was known for being eccentric, and the more anyone protested against his methods, the more absurd those methods became.

A wedge of rock beneath her foot slipped and Bel swore raggedly as she dropped a foot, her body slamming hard against the rockface. The breath was knocked out of her, and she hung there by her hands. She didn’t want to think about how far they had come already, far above the canyon floor.

“Tsk tsk.” She felt grit and pebbles rattle and bounce around her. “You really are trusting too much in your limbs, dearie.”

Bel wedged the toe of her boot into a crack. “Easy for you,” she gasped out.

“Well, yes,” he agreed amiably. “I’m a Master, after all.” He sounded close, even over the shrilling wind. His boots rattled on the stone only inches above her head. “Breathe, dearie. Breathe, and take in your surroundings. Know where you are and know where you are going.”

“It hurts,” she whispered, clinging onto the stone.

“That’s only the physical,” he said dismissively. “It can be put aside. Look beyond it, dearie.”

Bel swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe deeply, calmingly. It helped to clear her head, and that was when she understood the need for the blindfold. She had been so sure he was testing her, and he was, but not as she had expected.

Without the blindfold, she might have looked for easy routes, nooks, crannies, but now, here, on the very edge of fear of falling, she could feel more acutely. The wind was coiling in around her from all directions, but she could feel the patterns of it. The weight of her robes were not as much a hindrance as an anchor.

And the force was there, welcoming her.

She made herself lift a hand blindly, and trusted the force to guide her to where it needed to be.

A broad ledge spread beneath her hand, and she pulled up, letting her feet fall as they would.

She could never describe the sensation of the force moving in her. It was simply a feeling of rightness when her body moved as it should.

Above her, she could hear Rumpelstiltskin ascending again, and she smiled, following.

All at once, she put out her hand, and his caught hers, pulling her the last few feet onto a ledge.

“Almost there?” she said, breathing heavily.

He plucked the blindfold from her eyes, and she gasped. It wasn’t halfway. It was the plateau of the massive edifice, hundreds of feet far above the desert floor. He sat down beside her, his legs dangling over the edge of the sandy rock.

“Oh!”

Rumpelstiltskin dug through the pocket of his robes and pulled out a small protein parcel, offering her a chunk. “Very smoothly done, dearie,” he said approvingly. “No more of this nonsense of being too weak.” He nudged her. “Size matters not, as the little green fellow would say.”

She nudged him back. “What about seeing where you’re going?”

He grinned wickedly, showing sharp, inhuman teeth. “That’s negotiable.”


	8. The Devil's Hands - 19th Century Carnival

He had the devil in his fingers.

No respectable lady should watch or listen to such things, the preacher said, but Mademoiselle Belle cared naught for the preacher’s words. For every night that the carnival was in town, she would run through the tents and caravans to find the showman.

He did little, only sitting on an upturned barrel by a flickering fire, and putting his fiddle beneath his chin. His fingers danced, and his bow swept in loving arcs over the quivering strings, drawing poignant, pleading drops of sound that made Belle tremble to her toes.

She seldom dared to sit by the fire as others did. It seemed too direct, too forward, even though his eyes were always closed when he played.

Instead, she hid in the shadow of the nearest caravan, leaning against the rough, painted wood, one hand wrapped around the spoked wheel, and listened.

His hat always jingled with coin when he rose, but he was never the one to fetch it. A young boy, slight as a whip and dark, slipped past him. He paused by the fiddler, murmuring to him. The showman nodded, and the boy grinned, then swept in an extravagant bow, gathering up the clattering hat.

Belle remained where she was, closing her eyes and letting the memory of the last melody fill her, humming it softly.

“You have a good ear.”

She almost shrieked when a male voice spoke close by her. Her eyes flew open and by the distant flame, she could see the showman was almost upon her. His hand was resting on the rim of the wheel, and his dark eyes gleamed and danced as much as the flames.

“I-I should go,” she stammered.

“Must you?” he murmured. “You come every night, after all. Must you leave?”

She caught her breath. “You knew I was here?”

His teeth flashed in a grin. “My boy mentioned it,” he said, his hand trailing down the wheel to brush hers. She trembled at the brush of the calluses on his fingertips, the scars of his skill. They danced downward, as if playing across the strings of his violin, plucking deftly at her fingertips. “Do you dance, Mademoiselle?”

“Dance?” she echoed.

He laughed, and all at once, he had her by the hand. “Dance with me,” he said, pulling her closer.

By the firelight, his skin was cast in flickering bronze, and his eyes sparked and gleamed. He seemed like some kind of pagan God of times gone by, and when he smiled, she knew she was powerless to resist. Their shadows twined together as they danced to the fading echoes of his music.


	9. Treatment - Star Trek

“This is the ambassador?” Medical Officer French dubiously eyed the creature lying before her.

He waved his fingers lazily, one hand behind his head. He was slim and wiry, his clothing spiked leather, and while he seemed at ease, she could see the tension and pain twisting his lip and paling his scaled skin. “I am that, dearie,” he said. “And your nasty Captain seemed to think that shooting me in the leg was considered diplomatic behaviour.”

“He jumped out on Lombard with a sword,” Gaston snapped, his arms folded over his chest. “We thought he was a threat.”

Rumpelstiltskin, Envoy of the Forest, giggled maliciously. “Well-researched, Captain,” he sneered.

Belle sighed, pushing her patient back on the bed. “It’s the traditional greeting of the Forest,” she said with a sharp look at Gaston. “Especially among the mountain clans. The sword-dance. It’s considered both a display of martial prowess and grace.”

Gaston opened his mouth to say something, but Belle waved him away.

“You’ve done enough damage already, Gaston. Get off my deck.”

The Captain frowned, but nodded, marching briskly out the door.

The ambassador looked at her in amused surprise, then hissed as she quickly stripped away the bloody remains of his breeches from his wounded leg. “This is not how I imagined my first encounter with the famous starfleet going,” he said.

Belle cleaned the wound as gently as she could. “The Captain does get a little trigger happy,” she admitted. “He’s a great captain, but a terrible diplomat.”

The Ambassador gave that strange little giggle again. “You don’t say, dearie.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “How bad is it?”

Belle brushed her hair back from her eyes. “You’ll live to prance another day,” she said. “It’s messy but it’ll heal cleanly.”

He watched her as she bound the wound. “Thank you.”

“It’s my job, Ambassador,” she demurred, wiping her hands.

He waved her words away. “Not for the bandages, dearie,” he said, “for giving a better impression of this little enterprise. That someone knows the culture of my people gives me hope that this whole vessel isn’t peopled entirely by imbeciles. You should have served as diplomat, rather than that great lug.”

Belle looked at him with a smile. “I’m only a medical officer, Ambassador,” she said.

“And I,” he replied, “am only the planet Zenoi.”

Belle couldn’t help but laugh.


	10. Treatment 2 - Star Trek

“How’s your leg?”

The Ambassador opened his eyes. He was sitting in the viewing bay that overlooked the planet that was his home. The treaty with the Federation was still under scrutiny, and he knew there was much to be done before a deal would be agreed. 

“Still attached, dearie, thanks to you,” he said, revolving the chair to look up at Medical Officer French. She didn’t blush or try and wave away the compliment. She knew she’d saved his leg, but she didn’t need to crow about it. An interesting woman. 

“The steri-bindings should promote healing,” she said with a smile. “I wasn’t sure how close to human your DNA was, so it might be a few days off the usual timeframe, give or take.”

“Oh, have no fear, dearie,” he murmured, smirking. “I’m human enough.”

Now that made her blush.

Even more intriguing.

She turned away, looking down over the planet. “That’s your home, isn’t it?”

Rumpelstiltskin pushed himself upright, moving to stand alongside her. “Indeed,” he said, “but until these negotiations are done, this is as close as I get.” He slanted a glance at her. “I fear you will have to put up with me a little longer. I may even tear my steri-bindings in some tragic accident and need treatment.”

She looked at him, and she was smiling. “When you signed up for this Ambassador thing, didn’t they tell you about the tact and diplomacy you might need?”

He waved a hand vaguely. “Something was mentioned,” he said. “I’m sure it pales into insignificance when the other Ambassador shoots you.”

She made a face. “I guess his apology wasn’t convincing enough?”

“Apologies for the confusion doesn’t mean the same as I’m sorry I shot you in the leg,” Rumpelstiltskin said dryly. “The confusion suggests there was some. I wasn’t confused. He, on the other hand, was more stupid than confused.” He staggered, as if his leg was paining him. Perhaps it was a little theatrical, but it meant she took his arm and helped him back to the bench he was sitting on. 

“You okay?” she asked, crouching down to check the bindings. Her touch was light, and he gently covered her hand with his own.

“I’m fine,” he said. She looked up at him, startled, wide-eyed. 

“Ambassador…” she began.

He snorted. “I have a name, dearie,” he said.

“So do I,” she replied. 

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm.” She leaned up a little closer. “I do.”

He curled a finger under her chin. “Is it wicked? Tease?” He leaned so close he could see himself reflected in her eyes. “Beauty.”

The door hissed open behind them and the woman leapt to her feet, ever the professional. She was blushing, though, and she didn’t look back down at him, her eyes on the interloper, “Captain?”

“I was looking for the Ambassador,” Gaston said.

Rumpelstiltskin rolled his eyes. “Of course you were,” he said, pushing himself upright with the walking stick.

If need be, he knew he could prolong the treaty talks. Not entirely politically sound, but if it meant another chance to catch MO French alone… well, he never said to anyone that he was a diplomat.


End file.
